Old Frode, the old, humble, happy and affable town drunkard gazes upon the bottomless darkness of the sea, the night is cold, deeply so, to help him cope with this situation he’s cocooned himself inside a set of thick blankets, he rests on a chair, holding close to his person a bottle of rum that he makes a point of sipping from every few minutes or so.

To keep the elusive warmth inside of course.

The old fellow used to be a sailor himself until he returned to the earth to be with his beloved. Sadly she died soon after because of a plague and he never recovered from it, drinking himself one bottle at a time. The sea is a cruel and jealous mistress. She doesn’t like to play seconds.

To earn a few coins, he tends to help ships load and unload their cargo. He also works as a kind of communal alarm given. He spends most nights awake wrestling with himself. Surprisingly effectively given he was almost always drunk.

It was a few hours past midnight when he saw a ship arrive at port, he was keeping guard at the pier and could perfectly distinguish the shape of the incoming vessel, the weird thing, the detail that left him baffled, was that all lights were off and not one sign of life was given.

As the ship got closer and closer to the pier, he noticed that the speed didn’t decrease, and would most likely end up colliding with it. Frode got up from his chair and started calling for help. After making a ruckus, a few young and burly men came to his aid. They all watched as the ship got closer and closer in quiet desperation.

Then, splashing sounds were heard, and the ship came to a stop near the port.

After calling for anyone on board and not receiving any response, they all decided to see what had happened.

That was the first time. Many more were to come.